Through a Mirror Darkly by HannaGoldworthy

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Chapter 1

This chapter begins with the quote from Helen Oyeyemi's Boy, Snow, Bird.  If you squint you can see the first two prompts of the seven-prompt Caprice and Chance; the "love" I chose to feature is Philia.

“Nobody ever warned me about mirrors, so for many years I was fond of them, and believed them to be trustworthy.”

 

It was the first full sentence her handmaiden had spoken to her alone since they met the previous month, and Celebrían found the occasion novel enough to draw her attention away from the ruin that was her reflection.  She knew Opolintë’s face well, ebony skin mottled with light patches, one brown and one green eye, white-blonde curls generously interspersed with black ones; she had learned that the warm smile directed toward her was rare, and marked the maiden’s subtle attempts at soul-healing that usually went nicely.

 

“And what did the mirrors tell you, in that time you believed them?”

 

Opolintë glanced briefly over Celebrían’s shoulder before making eye contact again.  “Nothing of value, and nothing that you have not heard yourself, milady,” she said, and then she shifted the bright blue fabric which hung over her right arm.  “However, I did learn that one ill turn deserves another.  Shall we see if we can deceive the mirror right back?”

 

And she proceeded to help Celebrían dress, her touch gentle, her voice soft, and her body placed inexorably in a way that prevented her lady from looking in the mirror again.  At first, Celebrían had thought Ëarwen assigned Opolintë to her because the maid’s unconventional beauty would not threaten her granddaughter’s wounded vanity.  But now that she beheld Opolintë’s true, tranquil strength, she understood her grandmother’s wisdom.  Only one person could be better company now, but he was left behind, and Opolintë was sensible enough to avoid taking his place entirely.

 

The maid held up a blue mask, and grinned playfully.  “Now, milady, do you think you can handle a little fun tonight?”

 

***

 

“So, tell me,” Celebrían said later, as they walked the streets of Tírion, hectic in its festivity.  Opolintë was bedecked in an unnatural color of green, with a mask to match; she turned to Celebrían with a mouth full of candied apple, and offered a bite of the fruit she carried on a stick.  Celebrían politely waved her hand to decline, and continued her question.  “What is this feast, Sovallë?  I must confess that in Endorë we celebrate little in the month of Sovalwaris.”

 

A street performer let go a burst of blue flame from his mouth, startling the two for a moment.  Opolintë let the moment pass, obviously wondering if it would trigger one of Celebrían’s fits; when her lady laughed she smiled with relief, and answered as if nothing had happened.  “It’s a bit complicated for me to explain, as I was in Endorë myself when the holiday was instituted.  However, I’m given to understand that it’s a commemoration of the years immediately after the Darkening.”

 

Celebrían raised an eyebrow at that, skimming her gaze skeptically through the crowd of revelers in which danced and laughed and ate and played merrily about them.  Nothing of this feast seemed to recall any of the deprivation of that time.

 

Opolintë gleaned her meaning, and rolled her eyes smilingly.  “Well, I’m given to understand that this, strictly speaking, is only the lead-up to Sovallë.  Sovallë itself entails a weeks-long fast from rich foods such as meat, milk, and eggs, and this feast is to ensure that we use up all of those things so they do not rot.”

 

“Ah.  So that’s why the cooks were racing while flipping pancakes?”

 

“Exactly!  Even if every pancake hits the ground, we achieved the purpose of using up the ingredients.”

 

“At least the seagulls will eat like kings.”  It was very Ñoldor, even in the merriment; Celebrían was reminded of her mother in all her pragmatic majesty.  “So, what happens next?”

 

Opolintë’s face fell a little – she tried admirably to hide it, but Celebrían’s nerves were still too raw to miss the slightest change in a person’s expression.  “Well, milady, there is a ceremony at midnight, but I don’t think you’ll need to go.  Your condition precludes you from the fast, and that includes you missing sleep over a little affair that will happen again next year.”

 

Celebrían closed her eyes and huffed quietly; she was getting very tired of people treating her like glass because of her condition.  “Is it too frightening for you to summarize briefly, then?  I can avoid attending if I know what is happening.”

 

***

 

She did not avoid attending.  She just did not attend with Opolintë at her side.  From what she had heard, the ceremony which was performed in her grandfather’s great hall every year was a melodramatic reenactment of Melkor’s rape of the Silmarils, with Arafinwë playing the part of his father and a newly re-embodied elf playing the part of Melkor.  Afterward, the Ñoldor would be symbolically kingless for a period of five and one-half weeks, to venerate the five and a half Valinoran years of strife the Ñoldor had endured whilst (among other things) trying to find a king to fill Finwë’s shoes.

 

Celebrían had attended plays in the past that dealt with much the same subject matter.  She’d even seen them in the time between her rescue and her decision to leave Middle-Earth.  She had a feeling she could handle what she saw.

 

So, after Opolintë left her safely in her room, she sat up and waited.  Then, she slipped downstairs, filing in behind the rest of the attendees, taking up a well-shadowed corner in the back where she could see Opolintë, and know that her caretaker did not see her.

 

A single candle shone upon Finwë’s throne, highlighting Arafinwë where he sat, glimmering gold in all his finery. Three white jewels glimmered in his crown – not those Jewels, but patent facsimiles, very distant memories of their light.

 

The doors of the entryway flung open, and “Melkor” strode in confidently.  And that was where Celebrían stopped minding the proceedings carefully, for this new arrival chilled her blood to the core.  The costumers had done well, draping him in black silk that was cleverly sewn or enchanted to flow independent of the actor’s movements, covering his head with a crown so heavy that his brow seemed cruel no matter how sweetly he smiled.  But nothing could hide his head completely, and she saw that the hair beneath his crown was red as clotted blood.

 

She heard none of the lines of the melodrama, saw none of the deliberate flimsiness of the prop weapons used.  She only saw the Kinslayer stride up to her grandfather and provoke a duel, which ended with the King of the Ñoldor struck down in his own hall.  She saw the Kinslayer turn around, the crown with three jewels in his hand, and his gaze, though it did not land on her personally, pierced her to her very soul.

 

Once, in her youth, Celebrían had used Galadriel’s mirror without permission, when the War of Wrath had figured heavily in her education.  Through the mirror, a Kinslayer had seemed to look directly at her.  She had remembered his face ever since in her nightmares, lost and ruined, his red hair framing eyes that glowed with the sickly Ulmo’s fire blue that marked the risen dead.  Looking upon “Morgoth” now, that moment seemed to have been carried into her new life, and she was unable to prevent herself from shrinking against the wall, heedless of her actions.

 

***

 

“Moringotto” let loose a wicked, howling laugh, and then pelted at full speed from the room, chased by all of the spectators save two.  Arafinwë remained behind as he had always done; when the castle was empty, he would change into the traditional sackcloth for this time of year, an atoner like all of his people rather than a king.

 

As he made to leave, however, he saw the crumpled form of an elf in the corner of the room – obviously, someone had partaken too much of strong beverages, which did not need to keep but inevitably reared their ugly heads during any celebration.  This was not the first time such a thing had happened, nor was it the first time he had escorted someone safely home as his people ran pell-mell through the streets, so Arafinwë moved toward the corner as a matter of habit.

 

As he drew near, however, he realized with a cry that the slumped figure was his granddaughter, newly arrived and so very fragile.  Whatever had she been doing here, when any reminder of violence could send her into such devastating fits of abject fear?  Arafinwë shook her gently, mindful of how defensive she could be when roused from her waking nightmares.  She’d bitten Findaráto once, and pulled a knife on him at least once.

 

This time, however, she just stared blankly at Arafinwë, as if watching him from a great distance.

 

“Celebrían, I’m here.  Are you able to walk?”

 

She blinked slowly, one eyelid after the other.  Then, without warning, she vomited forcefully all over his gilt slippers.

 

Arafinwë sighed.  At least there would be time to get the blasted things clean before he had to wear them again.

Chapter End Notes

Opolinte is an archaic Qenya term for "fawn," which I spiced up a bit with a Quenya umlaut.  It's an epesse referring to her vitiligo, one she embraced for...reasons I hope to make clear later.

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